Tuesday

There's a lot to do today and I'm so tired at work that I'm practically nodding off. Staying up until 2.30am reading about a young man's suicide is not, as it happens, the key to a good night's sleep. I have to get up and wander around the office to try and force some alertness into me - but little works.

After work Jess and I head into town as there are two quite significant book launches to attend, and we plan to make flying visits to each depending on the free booze/food situation. The weather is horrible and we arrive at the first gallery - a large, private photography gallery on Cork Street - soaking wet and hungry. The book being launched is a collection of photographs of a man suffering from Alzheimer's disease as taken by his wife. They're nicely done and are sad things to behold but the mood is a little dour and the crowd does little for me. This is until Jess and I each have a glass of champagne on the go and the girl starts coming round with the canapes.

The nibbles are excellent, including one rather amazing thing that seemed to be a cone of hard parmesan cheese stuffed with porcini mushrooms. There are also quail's eggs and some meat on a stick (which probably has a much poncier name than that). As usual at these events I feel conspicuously underdressed, given my refusal in these situations to bow to convention and put a shirt or some smart shoes on. I did do up the top button of the thick grey shirt I had on, however - I'm sure this distracted from the torn jeans and crumbling white trainers. Hmm.

After around four or five glasses of champagne and more quail's eggs than I've ever had in one sitting we make a move just as the boring speeches are starting. The weather has improved and we dodge puddles up to Soho to the Arts Theatre Club where a book celebrating a noted early-20th-century prankster is being launched. The club is underground and has a nice, old feel about it - but, alas, the bar is not free. Never mind: we grab a couple of beers and head over to meet some other folks from work including the MD and the publisher of the book. We sit and chat happily about the book and work coming up, then later I am, oddly, alone with the MD and our sales manager discussing the relative merits of various eras of music. After a couple more beers they suggest going for something to eat. I fear the night getting messy if I stay out much longer and am very aware that a jacket potato will be waiting for me at home with K.

I make my excuses and get on the tube just before ten, listening to the Collings and Herrin podcast on my iPhone and tipsily chuckling to myself on the Victoria Line. I get home and devour said jacket potato in front of yet another excellent episode of Mad Men.